


Is Knitting a Defensive-Tactic for Monster Hunting?

by EdgarAllenPoet



Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Explosions, Gen, Knitting, Pre-Canon, building the lodge, canon adjascent, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-14 21:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20854085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: “Why would ghosts be in the basement?” he asked through his hands.  “Ghosts can be wherever they want.”“Not on Earth.  Basements are total ghost territory.”“If I argue you’ll make me watch one of those movies,” he said, and he was totally right, so Mama didn’t say anything.





	Is Knitting a Defensive-Tactic for Monster Hunting?

**Author's Note:**

> Watch me try to write a prompt for whumptober and barely manage to write 1. the prompt or, 2. the whump. 
> 
> Fuck it, it's fluff day. 
> 
> prompt: explosion

It was a peaceful night at Amnesty Lodge. with its only inhabitants sitting quietly in the half-finished grand entrance/living room. “Half-finished” is to be taken literally in this regard, there was an eight foot long 2x12″ stretching from the front door to the sofa, the space between an unfinished hole looking into the basement. It was definitely large enough to fall into, and it turned bringing in groceries from a simple chore to an obstacle course. They really ought to get around to finishing it.... when they could afford to. 

They’d reached a bit of an impasse. 

Just enough money to start renovating, not quiet enough to make the place inhabitable, _definitely_ not enough to bring in business and start earning, which was what they needed to finish fixing the place anyways. 

Rock and a hard place. 

They just had to wait for another piece to sell, Mama reminded herself. She had a stack of prints down at Leo’s, and she’d even handed over a few to that Vicky at the Cryptonomica, and she could sell again when the Harvest festival came around. Archie had a few of her better works in the city, and they _promised_ they’d tell as soon as another one went. It was a damn miracle the first one went for as much as it did, Mama knew that. Still, she was antsy for more. Something had to break, and it really could do to hurry up. 

She didn’t make _nearly_ enough at her green house gig to fund this project, and Barclay only made a twenty-five cents over minimum at the Denny’s. 

God damn fuckin’ capitalism. 

Tonight, though. Tonight things were fine, nice even. The wind was cut down a lot by the forest surrounding them, so even with just tarp as windows, it wasn’t miserably cold inside. Just a bit chilly. They could deal with that. 

“Fuck,” Barclay said, and Mama agreed. He was silent overall, only making noise once every ten to twenty minutes, when he fucked up his knitting project again and had to start over. He was balancing a book from the library on the arm of the couch, and he was squinting at the thread around his fingers, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed. 

He looked so fucking stupid. It was adorable. 

“You okay over there?” she asked him, breaking the silence they’d had going for the last hour. The sun had gone down while they’d been sitting there, and she got up to switch on the lantern that lived on their wood pallet coffee table. Mama’s fingers itched to make something _better._

_“_Fine,” Barclay grumbled, and then under his breath, “_Fuck.” _He tugged all the loops off the needles with clumsy fingers, muttered something under his breath, and stabbed them into the ball of yarn. He yelped, then, and Mama thought it was an impressive show of self-control that she didn’t immediately burst into laughter at the dummy stabbing himself.

The ball of yarn sailed across the room, bounced off the front door, and tumbled down into the basement hole. The loose end of the yarn stuck to the door as it went-- she really needed to sand that-- leaving a line of red from the door into the abyss. Mama pressed her lips together _tight_, kept her laughter to herself. She turned to glance at Barclay and found him with his head in his hands. She chuckled. 

“The ghosts got it now,” she told him, going to sit back next to him. He slumped back on the couch cushions, hands still pressed to his eyes, and she patted him on the knee in a way that was supposed to be more patronizing than comforting. 

“Why would ghosts be in the basement?” he asked through his hands. “Ghosts can be wherever they want.” 

“Not on Earth. Basements are total ghost territory.” 

“If I argue you’ll make me watch one of those movies,” he said, and he was totally right, so Mama didn’t say anything. He sighed, grinned a bit, and peeled his hands away from his face. “Fine,” he said. “The ghosts can have it. I’ll go dig it back out tomorrow.” 

“What’s with this ‘learnin’ to knit’ nonsense anyways?” she asked him, then felt a bit too harsh and back-tracked. “Not that hobbies ain’t good, this is good as any I s’pose, just doesn’t seem to be your cup of tea, is all.” 

“Fire-resistant clothing’s expensive as fuck,” he said, closing his book with a snap and setting it gently on the floor, too polite to toss around a book that wasn’t his. “The materials are cheap though, I just figured.” 

And just like that, the air just about left Mama’s lungs. The last abomination. Their stupid, harebrained plan. The explosion. The questions at the hospital. They’d all come far, far too close to blowing everything. 

They hadn’t talked about it. 

“You still thinking about the last hunt?” she asked. He looked at her blankly, and she bit at her cheek and glanced away. Yeah. So was she. “Abby’ll be fine. She always is.” 

“She’ll be fine cause she’ll be safe,” Barclay said, picking his book back up and glancing wistfully towards the pit as if considering going and getting his yarn back right now, instead of later. Mama took the book out of his hands and tossed her legs over his lap, locking him into place as she lounged back on the sofa and started thumbing through it, pretending to find it interesting. 

She hummed, said, “We can’t predict everything that’s gonna happen. We can’t try and prepare for every situation. We just get smarter, get better, and good luck’ll follow.” 

“You humans and your luck,” he grumbled, leaning for his book and frowning when Mama dug her heels in and pushed him back down. 

“Relax,” she said, and he barked out a laugh, not unkindly. It truly was the pot calling the kettle black, that kinda advice was. “Try your hand at knitting again tomorrow. You’ll get it. And you can prove me wrong when you knit all of us fireproof pants in the future, but you ain’t gonna get closer to that by fretting about it now.” 

“I’m not fretting....”

“And I ain’t lettin’ you up anyways. Take a nap, Big Foot.” 

Barclay sighed heavily but sat back again, and they both managed to keep still for about thirty seconds before Mama said, “Wanna go practice--?”

And he cut her off, impatient and eager, with a “Yes.” 

They ended up throwing knives out back by the woods-- her precision was better, but he hit the target more times than he didn’t, whereas she could hit the same spot ten times in a row and miss the target with every single one. Useless. 

“Not as easy as knitting,” she grumbled later, as they kicked off shoes and stripped to boxer shorts at the hot spring-- the entire reason they bought the place. Easier to visit when they weren’t committing trespassing every damn time.

“Way easier than knitting,” he complained. Then, “I get paid tomorrow. Check the list I left on the table before you leave in the morning.” 

She hummed, nodded, and realized with a bit of a jolt that despite all the circumstances-- monsters in the woods, gate to an alien world, putting her friends in mortal danger, living in a half-finished building, and making the refugees they’d found so far _wait_\-- she was pretty damn happy. Might be pretty damn happy forever, the two of them together like this. 

She sighed, sunk into the water up to her jaw, and tried not to think about it. 

\---

Mama was wearing her heavy boots, so she let her foot steps fall with more noise than absolutely necessary as she carried a stack of quilts down the stairs to the first floor. The stairs opened to common room, with the kitchen through a door just a quick jog to the left. The door was open, as was the kitchen pass-through, so Mama heard the conversation before she walked in on it. 

“Here’s the money, list is taped to the steering wheel.”

Mama could _hear_ Aubrey roll her eyes. “Your faith in me is _amazing,_ _really,”_ she said, and Barclay went on to tease her about the time she’d had to double back _three times_ because she forgot something else every time she returned-- money, driver’s license, and grocery list, in turn. 

Aubrey was shouting towards the stairs-- “Jake you have two minutes before I leave without you!” as Mama entered the kitchen, where Barclay was rolling his eyes back at her good naturedly. He grinned at Mama as she came in.

“Remember to--”

“Drive slow and take the turns careful,” Aubrey interrupted, and Mama narrowed her eyes. 

She pointed, said, “You wreck my truck, you work as Barclay’s slave till it’s paid off.” 

“Kinky,” Jake said, popping into the kitchen and darting away just as quickly when Aubrey swatted at him. Barclay sputtered and fussed, off-put by the idea, ears tinged red. Mama snickered to herself. 

“It’s gonna start snowing any day now,” she pointed out, “You know how to drive in the snow yet?” 

Aubrey went on to say _yes, of course_, she was a driving _master_, while Barclay seemed to remember something and darted off. Then Jake was shouting from the entryway, complaining that Aubrey was taking too long. She shouted back and ran after him, then a second later waltzed back in to pick the grocery money off the kitchen table with an embarrassed flash of a smile. Mama shook her head at the both of them. 

“Wait a second!” Barclay burst out, trotting back down the stairs just as Aubrey was walking out the door. He caught up with her, said, “It’s getting cold out,” and tugged a knitted hat onto her head. 

She laughed out loud, reaching up to right the thing and get it out of her eyes, tuck her curls away properly. “A hat?” she asked, and he tossed a scarf around her neck. “Ooooooh, it has _flames _on it, I love it!” 

She squeezed him in a hug, socked him on the shoulder, and then chased Jake out the door. She spun the truck keys around her finger while she went and dropped them off the porch on her way. Barclay grinned, and Mama sidled up next to him. 

“Weird ass kids,” she said, and Barclay hummed in agreement. 

“But you love them.” 

Mama nudged him with her elbow, trying to shove him over sideways, and carried the quilts out of the room and off down the hallway towards the first story rooms. “Yeah, maybe,” she said, and he laughed.

Monsters or otherwise, the homeyness of it all had her convinced sometimes. Could be pretty damn happy forever, maybe.

If they didn’t all beef it, yet. 

Ah well. She tried not to think about it. 

**Author's Note:**

> My parents built their house from scratch, and for a while in their first year of marriage had absolutely no floor in their kitchen. They put down a board and tried not to fall into the basement for several months. 
> 
> I don't imagine Barclay and Mama building the lodge from scratch. I imagine them buying a run down motel and piecing it back together.


End file.
